Nothing
by callmebobbie
Summary: "You were once Elizabeta North. I wonder what your former husband would think if he knew you removed him so thoroughly from your life that you couldn't even keep his name?" One-shot.


**Nothing: An MI-5/Spooks FanFic**

**callmebobbie**

**Yay! My very first fanfic! **

**This is my own interpretation of the events of Elizabeta Starkova's life from the time Lucas North was captured and imprisoned in Russia. Just a little one-shot. Reviews are very welcome – please let me know what you ****_really_**** think!**

**Events lead up to the first few episodes of season seven.**

**Disclaimer: I own none of this, just messin' round with them...**

**Day 1**

The first night he was due back from his work trip, but didn't come home, Elizabeta rationalised it. Flights are delayed, luggage misplaced, traffic terrible. His phone rang out. Of course he's not answering, he's in the air, in customs, can't hear his phone over the chaos that is Heathrow and so on and so forth.

**Day 2**

The second night had Elizabeta pacing their flat, phone attached to her ear.

"So flight 886 from Berlin did arrive on time? Can you tell me if there was a Lucas North on board? Please, I'm his wife..." Her accent sharpened as she growled, "What do you mean you cannot... Fine! Put me on hold again – ".

She sighed into the receiver as she realised she was again speaking to the jaunty hold tune ubiquitous to all companies determined to drive us mad with waiting.

**Day 3**

By the third night she had arranged to visit Lucas' boss. Why it was so damn hard to get an appointment with the man she had no idea. He worked for insurance, for goodness sake! Surely they wouldn't lose so many employees that he could be so blasé about it? The thought crossed her mind briefly that she should ring the police. That is what British citizens do, right? She shuddered at the idea. She knows this is London, she _knows_ this, but it's so hard to forget how you were raised. So hard to fight the urge to avoid the notice of the police. You do not draw their attention, ever.

**Day 5**

"Disappeared? How can – what – " Elizabeta struggled to find the words in English as she looked over at Lucas' boss and the detective with him, a tall man with sad eyes. She remained speechless in the noise of the cafe as the detective glanced over at Mr Pearce before leaning forward, fixing her with those eyes.

"When did you last hear from him, Mrs North?"

"I, uh, it was Saturday, just before his flight from Berlin. He said his flight was delayed, so he would take a taxi home. I said that there was no worries, I would come, but he insisted..." she trailed off, swallowing her tears.

"I'm so sorry, Mrs North," Mr Pearce murmured. "Detective Connors and I will do everything we can to find your husband. He is a good friend." His small smile of reassurance comforted her somewhat, despite the presence of the policeman.

**Day 932**

No more tears, 'Beta, Elizabeta scolded herself as she handed the papers over to the clerk on the other side of the counter. No more. He's gone and you have to move on. Her eyes burned and she had a sudden wish for the comforting presence of her mother. She always had known what to do. She probably wouldn't have approved of this, divorce by desertion. Desertion? Lucas was most likely dead and she hated this. Hated it. Elizabeta took a deep breath and stretched her face into some sort of pleasant mask as the clerk looked up at the sudden intake of breath.

"Your certificate of divorce should arrive in the mail in ten to twelve working days," the clerk intoned, repeating a line she had obviously spoken many times. Elizabeta nodded. That was it. So easy. It shouldn't be so easy.

All that night Elizabeta dreamed of his sky blue eyes turning from happiness to hurt as she threw papers in his face.

**Day 2651**

Elizabeta manoeuvred her son's pram out of the local library's doorway with a chuckle. "You always know what to say, Chloe."

"Do I ever, darl!" The loud blonde retorted. "I'll catch you and Eric on Thursday, right?"

"Can't keep us away, can she, _malchik moy_?" Elizabeta cooed to her son. The two friends waved in parting and Elizabeta strolled up the busy street humming a song from the library's storytime. Her phone began to vibrate against in her bag as it rested against her ribs. She gasped dramatically as she steered the pram close to a building. "Somebody loves me, _malchik moy_!" Her son's dark eyes caught her own before the passing pedestrians demanded his attention.

Shifting her heavy bag onto the pram, Elizabeta plunged her hand down the side and picked up with a breathless, "Hello?"

"Elizabeta Starkova." A statement, not a question.

"Yes?"

The voice continued in Russian, "You were once Elizabeta North. I wonder what your former husband would think if he knew you removed him so thoroughly from your life that you couldn't even keep his name?"

She froze against the building, not realising she was directly in front of a door. Someone pushed through the doorway and shoved against her shoulder with a mild curse that trailed off to an apology as he saw the occupied pram that jarred with the impact. Elizabeta didn't even look his way.

"Who is this?" she whispered in disbelief, numb to the fact she had also slipped into her mother tongue.

"Someone responsible for the welfare of your _former _husband. He's still alive, you know. Still dreams of you..."

"He's not – Lucas is not..." She can't breathe.

"Yes. He is, Elizabeta Starkova."

Breathe, 'Beta. _Breathe_.

"Is this some kind of sick joke?" Elizabeta spat, anger kicking in. "How dare you – "

"No joke, Ms Starkova. You will want proof, yes? Then we will meet."

**Day 3106**

Heart pounding so hard she felt ill, Elizabeta strode through the cemetery. Little Eric was safe at his daycare, but she was so very aware that these people knew no boundaries. Anyone was fair game to them. She only hoped that they would honour their word to keep away from her husband and son if she did this for them.

A hiccup. Not a sob. Lucas, _solnyshko moyo_. My sun. Throat burning, she forced her tears down. No more tears. She has wept enough for this man.

She rounded the corner by the rotunda and there he was. Still so tall, but so thin. She stumbled a little, but quickly recovered. Unaware of her approach, she took him in. A burden hung over him. She shook her head. Probably her own fevered imagination.

He turned. Caught her eyes. His sky blue eyes widened as they met her brown. She forced herself not to feel, not to cry out, not to collapse under the weight of that gaze. Her eyes, she hoped, would show nothing.

Nothing.

No more tears.


End file.
